Strictly Business
by CaliforniaStop
Summary: Fontaine's one mistake was letting Jack live. [AU, featuring suicide - or maybe it's assisted suicide]


Jack stood over Andrew Ryan's body, the broken golf club hanging limply from one hand. He took one long, stuttering breath: the scent of salt and iron was strong in his nostrils. He could taste blood at the seam of his mouth. Not his blood, though. No, it was Ryan's blood, streaked thickly down his face and the front of his sweater when he had, against his own will, raised the club again and again and again to strike down his father. His vision blurred with hot tears and a sob escaped him. His shoulders heaved. As Rapture trembled in its death throes, a light fixture fell from the ceiling and landed with a thunderous crash on the polished wood of Ryan's desk.

"_Hurry now!_" Atlas yelled over the radio. "_Grab Ryan's genetic key! Would you kindly put it in that goddamn machine!_"

Jack grit his teeth. "N-no," he hissed, but his body would not obey. It moved at Atlas' command; he stooped and rifled through the pockets of Ryan's finely-tailored suit, and then bound to the computer console to shut down the self-destruct. The machine beeped and whirred as Ryan's genetic code was read. Then, the sirens stopped and the city stilled.

The golf club was still in Jack's hand as Atlas' voice cropped up over the radio once more: "_Nice work, boyo._" He laughed a deep, dark laugh that chilled the blood in Jack's veins. He realized, then, with a jolt that laughter wasn't coming from the radio anymore, but from inside Ryan's office. He turned on his heel and saw Atlas swagger into view, the service radio hanging loosely at his hip. He must have been waiting outside, waiting for the whole thing to come to an end. Gone was the frank friendliness of Atlas, replaced by a shark-like grin and eyes as cold and hard as ice. "It's time to end this little masquerade," he drawled in a voice Jack did not recognize. "There ain't no _Atlas_, kid. Never was."

"What?" Jack rasped, his features twisting as though he were in pain.

"Fella in my line of work takes on a variety of aliases." Atlas – whoever he was – smirked. "But you've been a _sport_ so I guess I owe ya a little honesty. The name's Frank Fontaine."

"No," Jack breathed, paling. "No, no, no. You're–you're _dead_. Everybody said you were _dead_!"

Fontaine spread his hands, his smirk widening. "What can I tell ya? I'm a _pro_." He moved to Ryan's body and laughed. "Ooh, that looks painful. Bet ya didn't see that comin', did ya, _Andy_?"

Jack could only stand there, watching with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"Y'know, I had a lotta business partners in my life but _you_…" Fontaine chuckled coldly. "'Course, the fact that you were conditioned to bark like a cocker spaniel when I said _would you kindly_ mighta had somethin' to do with it."

With a wild snarl, Jack charged towards Fontaine, the broken golf club raised over his head.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, ease up there, _would you kindly_," Fontaine sneered, taking one step back and raising his hand. "There's no need for that, _boyo_."

Jack trembled, his eyes brimming with hurt. He clenched his jaw so tightly he felt his molars groan. "God_damn_ you," he spat.

"Whatsa matter, Jacky?" Fontaine drawled. He jerked his chin at Ryan's cooling corpse. "Ya upset about _that_? Don't be. In a coupla minutes, it won't even matter." He moved past Jack and stood at Ryan's master computer, brushing his fingers over the brass keys with a sickening tenderness, as though he brushed his fingers over a lover's skin. "Now as soon as this machine finishes processin' the genetic key you just fished off Ryan, I'm gonna run Rapture, tits to toes."

Jack turned stiffly, as though fighting for command of his own body. "F-fuck you," he stammered, his voice strained, tears welling in his eyes.

"Don't be like that, _boyo_," Fontaine said with a laugh. "We had a good run while it lasted." The computer whirred and beeped, and the main screen flashed with the Fontaine Futuristics logo. He chuckled and clapped his hands together. "Well, that's that. You've been a _pal_ but you know what they say: never mix business with friendship."

"You're not my _friend_," Jack spat with as much venom as he could muster.

"No, I ain't," Fontaine returned smoothly. He grinned, flashing his thousand-dollar Steinman smile. "But _Atlas_, now," he added, switching on the Irishman's brogue with ease, "he's tha only real friend you ever had, ain't he?"

A single, fat tear slipped down Jack's cheek. He dropped his chin to his chest. "S-stop it," he rasped.

"No need ta cry, boyo," Fontaine added. He pressed a hand over his heart. "I know it hurts, but it'll all be over soon." From the waist of his trousers, he pulled an elegant six-shooter revolver. He popped the chamber out with the heel of his hand, checked it was loaded, and then held it out to Jack. "Now then, would you kindly take me gun?"

The color drained from Jack's face. The cords in his neck strained against the collar of his sweater as he tried to resist, but his hand was already outstretched. He took the revolver and expertly set his grip. "W-what are you doing?" he whimpered. "Why are you–"

"Hush now. Atlas is here. No need ta cry," Fontaine interrupted, smirking. "Would you kindly stick the barrel of t'at gun in yer mouth?"

Jack trembled, violently. "N-_no_."

Fontaine's expression hardened, and Atlas' brogue slipped as his rough Bronx rumble came through in his anger. "I _said_, would you _kindly_ stick that goddamn gun in your _fuckin'_ mouth?"

"No–no please, please don't make me do t-this. _Please_."

"I ain't got time for beggars, kid," Fontaine growled.

If Jack had had a knife, he would have cut off his own arm to stop himself as he raised the revolver and slipped its narrow barrel between his lips. His jaw unclenched against his will and he shuddered as the cold of the metal bit at his tongue. He gave one heavy, muffled sob, and blinked through streaming eyes at Fontaine.

"Would you kindly cock it?" he asked, effortlessly switching back to Atlas' musical lilt.

Jack's thumb slid against the hammer, and he felt the click deep in his molars. The taste of metal and gunpowder was a bitter tang at the back of his throat. He wanted to choke.

Fontaine's eyes narrowed fractionally and, for a moment, something indecipherable flashed across his face. He watched Jack for several stuttering heartbeats. Finally, his voice barely above a whisper, he said, "Now, boyo, would you kindly pull the trigger?"

Jack obeyed.


End file.
